


O.A.R

by BValentineFics



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 2018 Winter Olympics, Choices, Gen, Letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 15:13:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13616037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BValentineFics/pseuds/BValentineFics
Summary: He is — not was, is — the youngest in Men’s Singles history to strike gold at a Grand Prix Final, and there was a time he was looking forward to expanding his career successes by one day representing his country at an Olympic Games. Yet another tally he could rub in that smug bastard JJ’s face. That all changed though, when the doping allegations arose and his country was lambasted for blatant cheating. In fact, Yuri is quite certain that, if it weren’t for a certain little speech pleading the new generation’s case, the letters wouldn’t have been sent out at all.A letter that he received. A letter that he hasn’t quite summed up the courage to open yet.





	O.A.R

The emboldened white envelope glared at him from his comforter, unopened if not a bit smushed from the contents of his backpack. The return sender was clear, his own details etched out in perfect formation. He should be happy — ecstatic even to receive one. Mila certainly hadn’t had any reserves about expressing her joy, squishing him into her tight embrace whilst squealing shrilly in his ear. Stupid, Baba. All the same he was happy with the camaraderie she had unrelentingly given him over the years and if ever there was an athlete who had deserved to receive affirmation, it was her; not that he’d ever let that get around. He’d never live it down.

Snatching the letter up, Yuri threw himself back onto the bed and held it aloft to bear further scrutiny. It wasn’t like he expected the IOC to send a letter that told him he couldn’t compete. For one, he hadn’t been old enough to participate when the Olympics had come round to Sochi and second, he had more pride in his ability to perform too allow any form of blatant government interference that could strip him of a medal in future. He was the youngest, in Men’s Singles history, to take gold at a Grand Prix Final. Granted, by the skin of his teeth, but he’d done it. Performance enhancing drugs had never even been a dalliance of a thought.

Yet, he was nervous. 

“ You’re being stupid, Yuri,” he cajoled himself, slapping the envelope back down before scooping up his phone. The fiery redhead was already celebrating on Instagram, her lips kissing the guarded end of one of her worn white skates with a wink. The caption was short, sweet, and utterly her flirtatious self.

 

[ A kiss from me to you! Olympics, here I come! #pyeongchang2018 #breaktheice ]

 

It was met with mixed reactions. As Yuri scrolled through the comments that had been left behind he picked up on quite a bit of anti-Russian rhetoric, though the figure skater’s fans were quick to jump to her defence in an effort too try and burn the haters out of the feed. Then there were the actual Russian citizens, some of which thought none of them should go if they couldn’t compete under their nation’s flag or hear the anthem played should any gold medals be won.

With a roll of his eyes he flipped back to the main screen and kept scrolling, temporarily ignoring the text alert to appear at the top of the screen from Otabek. It was just a question. A stupid question. It was about the damn letter. From Katsudon to Chulanont, Georgi to Viktor, heflicked his thumb up the screen until he found himself stopping at an after practice snap of Izolda Smirnov on the bleachers, hair set free from the sloppy ponytail she’d drawn tight to her scalp earlier in the day. Her face was flush, forehead dotted in a thin sheen of sweat. He didn’t remember much of her from when they were both junior competitors. One moment she was there, and the next she was gone. Her loss had been insignificant to him at the time.

Her grand return, however, was proving to be an unsettling distraction — least of all because Viktor was now coaching her as well. It was evident in his skating when, after a mix-up in scheduling, they’d both been set to share the ice in the same time slot not even two days ago. It wasn’t that he’d never shared the rink before — obviously, he had — always slightly aware of the people he was skating around to avoid unnecessary risk or injury. But with her, he was almost hyper-aware. He’d messed up a quad salchow that unfortunate afternoon. The resulting aftermath being a scolding from Yakov, an extra hour of ballet with Lilia, and he was further made to do the move another five times before he’d been allowed to call the day. On a brighter note, he’d been far too tired to be angry anymore when he’d gotten home. 

Tapping the photo, he followed the curve of her pouty lips with his gaze before realizing what he was doing and exiting the app with a scowl. He had to unfollow her. He would. Later. In an attempt to distract himself from the wave of heat he inexplicably felt in his face, Yuri opened Otabek’s message with newfound resolve.

 

[ Yes. I got a stupid letter. ]

 

Otabek had clearly not only seen Mila’s post but had been waiting with the utmost patience, for a reply pinged up on the screen almost immediately.

 

[ The verdict? ]

 

[ I don’t know. I haven’t opened it yet. ]

 

[ What? Why? ]

 

Yuri shifted his eyes to the envelope once more, innocently sitting where he’d dropped it near his hips. Potya was nearby, curled up next to it, and blissfully unaware of his inner turmoils. If he listened close enough it sounded like she was snoring. Oh, to be a cat.

 

[ I’ve been busy. ]

 

[ Too busy to see if the Olympics aren’t just a dream? Liar ]

 

[ What are you getting so worked up for? ]

 

[ You know why ]

 

He did, and he should’ve known better than to question it. Otabek had been almost intolerable in expressing his desire to go to Pyeongchang since the beginning of the season, only for a busted kneecap to take him out of the running entirely when it came time to qualify. His poor friend wasn’t even supposed to be on his feet for very long, let alone donning a pair of skates. There were crutches involved; stacked pillows. Mostly, he was confined to his bed. Yuri huffed, flummoxed, before beginning to type. Now that he felt like a douche, the least he could do is try and be honest with one of the few people who were tolerable enough to put up with him.

 

[ I’m scared, okay. Tell anyone and your kneecap’s not the only thing that’ll be broken. ]

 

[ Yuri…the worst they can say is no ]

 

[ You could argue the worst they can say is yes. ]

 

[ Explain ]

 

In that one word lay the crux of his problem. The more he thought of fleshing out what had him so wired over it, the more crippling it became. Mindless, he stared at the digital keyboard, at a complete loss for words.

 

[ I don’t know. It just could be. ]

 

Otabek didn’t reply this time. The message indicated it had been seen by him, but otherwise, there was silence. Thinking then. Checking to be sure the phone’s vibrate function was set he placed the device on his stomach carefully prior to grasping the letter once more and sliding his thumb under the edge of the flap. His heart was a jitter, dully pounding against his chest while he inched his thumb across the short expanse. All that could be heard in the interim was the careful, prodding tears of the adhesive being forced apart until, at last, he’d gained access to the papers inside.

One was a comprehensive list of regulations he would be made to follow should he acquiesce to go. Another involved a sizing chart for the uniform he would have to wear at the games themselves, simple little slots to fill in so that he fit in with the rest of the Russians that were daring to attend. There would be no nationalistic symbols. There would be no colours to indicate that he was Russian at all. In fact, the only inclination towards his nationality would be the title, etched onto the jacket that declared him an Olympic Athlete FROM Russia. 

The first page was the one that had his heart palpitating the most. It was their pleasure, it said, to extend an invitation to one who showed exemplary promise in upholding the values of the event itself. There were bits and pieces of acknowledgement, more of a nod of the head really, to the speech that had been spoken just over a month ago in an effort to curb the IOC’s favour towards the athletes who hadn’t committed the ultimate faux pas. Something about the Olympic spirit popped up once or twice. Most of all, it was very clearly a yes. Yuri grasped his phone, eager to settle the very silent Otabek’s curiosity.

 

[ So I opened it. ]

 

Nothing. He may as well have been texting dead air.

 

[ Beka?? Hello? ]

 

Glancing at the time, his face fell a little flat. Otabek was three hours ahead of him, and he’d been sifting through the documents of the envelope for at least 20 minutes on an ever revolving spectrum. He was sure he’d read the invite alone fifty times. He’d probably passed out for the night. Really, even he should be getting to bed. Lilia had him in at around six in the morning for yet another ballet lesson, and then he had to make sure he was at the rink prior to nine to continue working out the kinks of his routines, and hope that Izolda wasn’t there to mess him up. Unfortunate, however, was the realization that he was more awake than ever before. The outlook projected for tomorrow wasn’t a good one if this kept up.

 

[ Hey…just so you’re happy if you wake up grumpy… ]

[ It’s a yes. ]

[ Also…I’m only going just to wipe that smug loser JJ’s face in my win. That bastard needs to be knocked down a few more inches...like off the podium. ]

[ And no. I don’t care that you’re on friendly terms with him now. ]

[ Or ever. ]

 

Not expecting a reply he tapped the camera feature, sifting through his bedside table to get the selfie stick he’d stowed away before snapping it into place and configuring his way clumsily towards the dozing Potya. Careful not to disturb the Himalayan too much, he tilted his head into her fur, closing his eyes once he’d configured the shot and relaxing his face. It took a few tries, but eventually, he got a decent enough looking photo to post. If anything, it would keep the Angels happy since he hadn’t posted in almost a week. They weren’t keen on hiatuses, always coming up with horrific scenarios for what could have possibly happened to him.

One filter later, he was humming at the caption. He’d typed four different phrases already, only to wind up deleting them. Here I come, guess who’s going to the Olympics?, got my invite, headed to Pyeongchang — it all read so forced. It was his stomach grumbling that had him smirking, aiming for quirky ambiguity instead.

 

{ Hey @ **redhotbabicheva**! Do you think they have _pirozhki_ in South Korea? #pyeongchang2018 }

 

Quickly posting it, the influx of his own fans sent hearts blipping up at the bottom of the screen in quick succession of one another. Comments came pouring in at random — congratulating him, wishing him a good night, some pointing out it was neither an affirmation of his attendance but something far more vague and flippant, and others merely sending an array of emojis while begging to be noticed by him. Finding it all far more entertaining than he should, he removed his phone from its entrapment to peruse it all until he came to a comment left by a certain blonde haired skater no more than a few seconds ago.

 

{ **smirnov_ice** : Congratulations Yuri! Show them the true strength of Russian figure skating. }

 

His face felt hot again. Yuri’s lips curled downward at the immediate reaction, slapping his thumb against the little heart in self loathing. She was just another skater. They weren’t even friends. They just…followed each other on social media. Instagram specifically. They hadn’t even said more than two words to one another otherwise. It wasn’t a crush. He had no time for such distractions. 

He shouldn’t have liked her comment. Moreover, he shouldn’t be replying to it, yet his fingers were quicker than his brain and before he’d realized it, he was staring at the simple little word in befuddlement.

 

{ @ **smirnov_ice** : Thanks. }

 

He really ought to go to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> I am SO excited for the Olympics in Pyeongchang this year! Especially the figure skating. There's just so many interesting things going down right now at these Winter Games, and one of those things inspired this story. Let me know what you thought of it in the comments down below. I feel like I may have a few more Yuri!!! On Ice fics in me yet.
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Blu
> 
> PS: I did base Izolda off an actual figure skater in Russia. I know that OFC's don't tend to go down well in general, or even OMC's at that, for a variety of reasons (many of which I even shake my head at in dismay, because...obvious self inserts are obvious) but I thought it would be interesting to toss the dice in and see how she worked out. Anyway...I'll shut up now. Hope you enjoyed this little one shot and looking forward to any comments you all leave.


End file.
